We are in organization mode Chez Mom101. I realize now, it’s as if this beautiful Brooklyn apartment somehow never totally gelled in 2005 (eep) after an office became a nursery, a hallway became a row of former office bookshelves, a corner of the living room became a play kitchen-slash-game storage area, a nursery became a children’s room for two, and the opposite living room corner became the world’s messiest desk.

(Not mine. Mine is second messiest.)

Cut to six years later. I’m miserable every time I walk into my home, see the mess, and think of the possibilities I once dreamed about.

I browse Ohdeedoh and the design blogs every day, looking for ideas and inspiration, swooning over the perfect rooms with their perfect walls and the perfect single stuffed animal propped perfectly on the one, single, perfectly distressed antique rocker.

Ah, things will be so perfect for those perfect children.

The perfect children WHO ARE NOT YET BORN.

Do those parents realize that one day there will actually be kids in those rooms? Living there? Doing stuff to that furniture and those sweet little ottomans? I’m pretty sure they don’t.

Because I didn’t.

I gaze at these pictures and notice the lovely children’s books (five? Perhaps six?) are all of uniform sizes, shapes, and color palates, never challenging the lightweight bookends on top of the (sticker-free) dresser. No doubt it’s all poetry. Some in French. Perhaps a lone Goodnight Moon or Boynton board book (provided the spine color is the right tone). There’s no Richard Scarry Biggest Book of Words Ever which fits absolutely nowhere; no mini Maisy’s birthday book with bent and broken pop-ups cramming out between the covers; no Disney movie tie-in books that are six times the width of any normal book, so that Kung Fu Panda: Master of Disaster is the most visible title on the once lovely little shelf.

In these perfect children’s rooms, there are never more than three stuffed animals, either beautiful antiques lovingly passed down from grannies and aunties, or ironic modern Ugly Dolls and Kid Robot figurines. Is there a humongous tiger from the day that Daddy wanted to prove he could buy the biggest doll in the whole store? Of course not. Is there a collection of  lead-coated plastic baby dolls procured from the streets of China Town by eager relatives, or Dora dolls hard-won at amusement parks that you will never be allowed to throw away ever? Haven’t seen one in one of those photos yet.

And there is rarely anything more on the dresser than one strategically placed tube of butt cream, in colors that coordinate with the Ralph Lauren paint. I know. I did it once too.

The little throw rugs–white perhaps?–show no signs of foot traffic. Of diaper explosions gone awry. Of juice box drips, ground-in play doh, cray pas, or that half-eaten lollipop that got buried in the shag for weeks.

The mattresses are unstained, the sheets are pristine (possibly ironed?) and the walls are free of hand prints, chalk marks, paint splats, tape residue, and homemade growth charts scribbled on the wall in permanent ink without your permission.

Mind you, there’s a new mark every four days or so. They believe they just grow that fast.

And oh, the color combinations of these dream nurseries. Persimmon and gold. Maybe  navy and cream. Not a neon Fisher Price exersaucer with an underwater motif, or a humongous lime green stuffed turtle to mar the exquisite palate. Not a giant crumpled preschool paint project for the walls, strands of mardi gras beads flung over bed corners, or plastic goody bag trinkets from the weekly birthday celebrations that serve absolutely no purpose except to keep the dust bunnies under the dresser company and perhaps keep the children of Bangladesh gainfully employed.

Oh, and just wait until these decorating mavens learn about the garbage–toilet paper rolls, egg cartons, bent pipe cleaners, used lip balm containers–that pass for treasures in a child’s world.

What beautiful rooms they are. Gorgeous. Spectacular. For now.

Maybe I’m bitter because we have so little room in New York. So little wall space. So little storage. And so so so much stuff.

I’ve read posts about how design blogs often make moms feel inadequate.

Is it inadequate that I feel? A litttle. Or maybe, I’m just a few years ahead.

[photos that are not mine via ohdeedoh which is still the most awesome site for browsing and/or feeling inadequate depending on your level of security and tolerance for mess. While you’re there, you should also vote for this contest. If you can handle it.]